


Layover

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, PWP, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Mòrag makes a quick stop at Torigoth for some "official business" (with Brighid).
Relationships: Brighid/Mòrag Ladair
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	Layover

**Author's Note:**

> they're both gay and horny for each other and that's just how it is!

“One of the soldiers mentioned you’ll be departing early in the morning,” Brighid says, accusatory in the way she barbs that casual remark. “Were you afraid of offending me, somehow? Or were you so occupied that you neglected to mention it after you arrived?”

She does have a point; the Special Inquisitor has no concrete business here in Gormott at the moment, nor are there any urgent matters calling for her presence. It’s just a layover, really, for the ships to refuel before they continue on their way to the Praetorium, for other business involving Core Crystals and negotiations with the Praetor. Boring, bureaucratic paperwork. At least Brighid doesn’t have to deal with that.

So Mòrag came here under the pretense of visiting on her own volition. She would hardly consider that to be a crime worth pointing out.

“I thought to save the news for breakfast,” Mòrag says, somewhat mildly.

“Assuming you would still be around by then.”

Mòrag shoots back, “I could have spent the night in my own private quarters.” On the Titan ship. But, she’s here at the Ardainian consulate instead, sitting on the edge of Brighid’s bed, taking her time with removing each layer of armor and regalia. This must count for something, surely. So she thought. It’d be nice to spend some time with each other before they’re separated again, she had thought. She had also hoped Brighid would feel the same.

But Brighid keeps her back turned, putting away the dresses Mòrag had brought for her. Gifts, meant to placate. Which obviously didn’t work.

“And I’m to be flattered that you’ve chosen my company for the evening instead?”

It hasn’t been _that_ long. Has it? Keeping track of the weeks begins to lose its priority when she gets lost in her work.

“… You’re upset.”

“Not really,” Brighid plainly says. “I just missed you.”

“And I missed you as well,” she replies without missing a beat.

Something in the air changes with a subtle shift in ether, no doubt Brighid’s doing. Mòrag may admit to be oblivious at the worst of times, but even she can tell what’s going on and why Brighid had been particularly testy all evening. They’d both been expecting this, really. Maybe this exchange was just an unrehearsed play-by-play for the sake of indulgence, too.

What else would a single night together be good for, after all?

“Show me how much you missed me,” Brighid says. She doesn’t have to wait long; Mòrag is already crossing the room in her state of partial undress to wrap her arms around her waist, nosing her hair aside to kiss below her ear and down her neck. Oh, she missed _this_. She inhales, already nipping and sucking with the intention to leave a mark (though it would fade within the hour), hands wandering over her breasts and then—

“You’re being clingy, Lady Mòrag,” she breathlessly laughs, prying herself away. Mòrag frowns and tries to take ahold of her again, but she’s stopped with a palm placed against her mouth.

“Mmh?”

“I want you to _show me_ how much you missed me,” she repeats. She lets go of Mòrag, leaving her gaping at the sway of her hips as she walks away to sit on an accent chair, well out of reach. She crosses one leg over the other and smiles.

“You… would like me to strip?” Mòrag looks down at herself. There’s really not much left on her, just her undershirt and trousers.

Brighid raises a brow.

“Or rather… ah. I see. That.”

Her smile widens.

Okay. Yes, certainly. That’s feasible. It isn’t as though she _isn’t_ prepared, nor had she not expected something like this to happen, but in truth— the thought of her early departure nags at the back of her mind, telling her that she should get a full night’s rest for tomorrow’s business at the Praetorium. Mòrag removes the rest of her clothes anyway until she’s standing naked before Brighid, awkward and uncertain without clear direction. It’s… simply easier, when Brighid tells her what to do.

Brighid’s eyes open, just a fraction, as she looks her up and down approvingly. “You’ve been diligent with your training, I see.”

“Of course.”

“Go ahead.” She jerks her chin toward the bed.

She felt… shameful, and vaguely humiliated, the first time they’d done this. But it wasn’t anything to do on Brighid’s part— Brighid was nothing but encouraging, cooing words of praise and stroking Mòrag’s hair and telling her what a wonderful job she did. The way she’d been raised left very little room for Mòrag to explore these personal aspects of her life. Becoming Special Inquisitor didn’t help those matters either. But now, she doesn’t hesitate when she lays on the sheets, leaning back against the pillows piled at the headboard so that she’s able to look directly across the room at Brighid.

 _Then_ she hesitates. It’s no longer shameful, only unnerving.

The impatient side of her wants to whine out loud and plead for Brighid to join her on the bed.

“It was rather hypocritical of you to call _me_ clingy,” Mòrag says, her voice already thick. She spreads her legs, offering Brighid a clear view of her arousal, not yet touching herself. Not yet. If Brighid wants to tease her for being impatient like a hungry dog, then two can play at that game.

Brighid stands up. Mòrag smiles, thinking she’d already won, but she’s just going over to the bar cabinet to pour herself a glass of wine.

“I only expected transparency on your part,” Brighid replies. She returns to her seat and swirls the wine, patiently smiling.

She takes a sip as Mòrag begins to trail one hand down her stomach, her other arm casually folded behind her head.

“ _Transparency?”_

“Honesty, Lady Mòrag.”

She’d like to close her eyes. But she shouldn’t. Mòrag forces herself to keep her eyes open and trained on Brighid as her fingers slide over her wet folds, gently massaging herself. Her heart is already racing and that other, primordial part of her brain is begging her to turn off all other distracting thoughts, but then she wouldn’t _win._

“I’m… honest enough.” Two fingers should be enough for the moment. She deliberately avoids directly touching her clit, for fear of making any noises. For now, her breathing is only slightly shaky, teeth momentarily sinking into her lower lip to hold back a whimper as she strokes herself.

“I find that hard to believe.” Brighid smiles and sips at her wine. “I’m watching you hold yourself back at this very moment, after all.”

Mòrag squeezes her eyes shut with a groan. If she succumbs, that’s an admission of guilt to spending the night solely for sex before she moves on in the morning. If she continues waiting for Brighid’s command, she’d only be proving her correct. Damn it. So much for that imaginary game she thought they’d been playing.

Then… she may as well be completely honest. She keeps her eyes closed as she touches herself, rubbing her clit with her thumb and teasing at her own entrance with just one finger. The sensation jolts her, drawing a low moan from the back of her throat, her toes already curling at the pleasure. Then just because, she spreads her legs just a bit wider, drawing a knee higher, pleased at her own generosity for offering Brighid an even better view of her masturbation.

If Brighid doesn’t want her to hold back, then so be it. And if Brighid isn’t even watching anymore, then so be it. She envisions it anyway, on the back of her eyelids; her relaxed posture in that armchair, one hand keeping her chin propped up and the other hand idly swirling her wine, legs neatly crossed as she watches with that smirk that always manages to get under Mòrag’s skin in the most delicious ways. She _should_ be watching. Mòrag wouldn’t consider herself to be a braggart, but she’d say she’s putting on an exceptionally impressive display.

One finger slips inside herself, all the way down to the knuckle. The mere thought of Brighid watching is…

“Were you ever lonely?” Brighid suddenly speaks. Mòrag opens her eyes and opens her mouth, her hand going still.

“I…”

“I’ve thought about you plenty of times, you know,” Brighid says with a sigh, the corners of her lips turned upward. “On that bed, exactly where you’re laying right now. I’ll admit it.”

Oh. _Oh._ Her heart skips a beat at that sudden mental image, of Brighid doing exactly this— albeit without an audience— in the dead of night, thinking of _her_ , touching herself…

Mòrag pulls her finger out, to vigorously rub circles around her clit with a very audible moan.

“Did you—?” she chokes out, practically fumbling with herself now.

“I liked to grind against a pillow,” Brighid says, completely nonchalant. She brushes her lips against the rim of the glass, inhaling. “With you in mind, but you'll be glad to hear that a pillow hardly compares to the real deal.”

“ _Ah—_ ”

“Don’t finish yet. It’s your turn to be honest, Lady Mòrag.”

She just about slaps her other hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, tilting her head back. _Unfair._ Mòrag steadies her fingers, slippery and dripping wet, smearing the mess over her abdomen as she reluctantly pulls away. Her thighs are trembling and her pussy aching for that release, but she obligingly leaves it be to instead play with her breasts. She cups each one and pinches each nipple with a roll between her fingertips, earning a pleased smile from Brighid. Oh, she hadn’t even realized how sensitive she is right now. She’s throbbing, exposed to the air with nothing to stimulate her most sensitive parts, but she keeps her legs spread wide as she squeezes and massages her chest.

“I thought of you, as well,” she breathes out, voice pitched. “Though I… never afforded myself the luxury, of pleasuring myself…”

Her own hands aren't nearly as skillful as Brighid’s, anyway.

Brighid’s down to the last drops of her wine. Mòrag forgets how to breathe for a moment as she watches Brighid lick her lips and stand up, setting the glass aside. Then she’s there, standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at her.

“Go ahead and finish. But keep talking.”

“I missed you—“ Mòrag gasps, practically crying out with relief. Her left hand returns down between her legs, two fingers sinking into herself and her thumb urgently pressing upon her clit. She fucks herself with all that previous restraint lost, her other hand dropping to her side to grip the sheets. Once before, she would have hidden her face with shame at all the wet, lurid noises of her fingers steadily pumping in and out, in and out, curling right _there—_ “I- I had always— _ahh,_ I m-missed you so much, so much—“

Brighid murmurs something but Mòrag barely even hears her. She doesn’t seem to notice Brighid undressing, either.

She really was telling the truth; for all those sleepless nights when Mòrag could think of nothing but Brighid, upon her, in front of her, behind her, inside her— she'd never touched herself. For some petty, silly reasons, perhaps. Or because she had other things to think about and it was all she could do to ignore that ache between her legs, foolishly believing that indulging would only make it worse. What was she supposed to do? Spend hours alone at night with something between her legs to desperately hump? That alone wouldn't have given her relief, it would've just driven her mad. 

She'd been such an idiot. Now she gets it.

Her imagination just sucks.

It's better like this, with Brighid here to watch her masturbate. Mòrag would gladly fuck herself, in any position, with any sort of toy or object, as long as Brighid would watch. Her fingers curl and she briefly spreads herself as they pull halfway out, not because it feels particularly good to stretch herself open like that, but because she thinks Brighid might appreciate the view. 

Then she's back to it, vigorously pumping her fingers and bringing her other hand back to her breast, to pinch and squeeze. She trembles and tenses up, panting hard and gasping out—

_”Brighid—!”_

She clenches around her fingers, tensing as the pleasure ripples up her spine. Her back briefly arches, toes curling, and she lets out another lilting moan. Everything’s burning inside and out.

The mattress is shifting. Brighid kneels between her legs and gently removes her quivering hand.

“Thank you for your honesty, Lady Mòrag,” she says with a smile. Mòrag simply stares and gapes stupidly, her jaw slack, as Brighid licks and sucks all that wetness off of her fingers, tongue swirling between each joint. Oh. A deep, electrifying warmth washes over her, and suddenly Mòrag is _aching_ all over again. Of course Brighid would choose now of all times to ignite their affinity link.

As if there’s any other better time.

Brighid’s lips pop around her thumb as she cleans the last of the mess off. She crawls over Mòrag, pushing her thigh up between her legs for Mòrag to helplessly grind against, and kisses her— the taste of the wine, and the taste of _herself_ , sharp and sour-sweet from the alcohol, rendering her completely dizzy for a moment. Mòrag kisses back to the best of her abilities while she’s reeling, allowing Brighid to push her tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss, her breath hot and heavy. All the while she continues to clumsily roll her hips in circles, trying to get any sort of friction against Brighid. She becomes aware of the fingers gripping her hair to hold her in place only when Brighid pulls away.

“Would you like me to show you what I did to the pillow?”

Unable to form any articulate words, Mòrag eagerly nods.

“Then…”

Brighid moves further up, and higher, until she’s kneeling directly over Mòrag’s mouth.

* * *

The crewmen and soldiers are all yawning in the cool air of the early morning. The sun’s barely even out but they’re supposed to fly out anyway; even the Titan looks like it's about to drift off to sleep. Everyone’s already waiting around, ready to go, but the last person they’d ever expect to show up late isn’t even here yet. Ah, someone there is jogging down the dock but it’s— not the Special Inquisitor. Just a messenger, from the looks of it.

“Where is she? We’re already running behind schedule.”

“Er, the Special Inquisitor said there’s been a change of plans.”

“Huh?”

“We’re gonna be spending another two days in Torigoth, from the sounds of it.”

“You’re kidding. What about the meeting with the Praetor?”

The messenger shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Well… whatever. I wouldn’t mind a couple days off. Hey, she’s staying at the consulate, isn’t she? With Lady Brighid?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” Then, he mutters, “Figures.”


End file.
